Iron
by Nickolas Blaire
Summary: Erik finally comes back on some unimportant night, in some unimportant courtyard of Xavier's private hospital.


**I don't own these characters. The rights belong to Marvel.**

Admittedly, no matter how hard he sat and grimaced over what he had lost, Charles Xavier couldn't remember much of anything. He recalled a vague sensation, much the same as a vacuum cleaner swallowing a snake; a sort of prolonged pull. The pull of a bullet tearing a path through his neural network. Maybe it was the pulling away of the neural system itself. The great cleansing, the clearing the sensational pallet. Xavier knew the man who had skewed the bullet, he knew him by name and by taste. Every important bit he once held dear was stolen, unregrettably it seemed. Xavier couldn't detach himself from lack of feeling that found him in the night, for the first few months every night the bedside radio listened to him cry. Xavier had been told, by only his closest loves and dearest inanimates, that he was a gentle crier. He cried like a man who didn't want to be heard though, and that type of sorrow was dangerous.

The morning he lost hope of walking again was in the night, when the moon glinted off his wheels. Then he knew, he knew because it somehow seemed right. Like each bit of himself had finally fallen together. This is how he was supposed to be, a man great of mind and slow of body. How was he supposed to lead the human race, and the mutant's into peace when he couldn't but stand. And he cried. Holding his head in his hands and dreaming of mockery.

Some voice slid into the courtyard then like so much heavy molten lava, "Surely you can walk."

Xavier tried to pull himself together and squinting through the fountain of his private hospital, he choked, it was Erik.

"You look well." Xavier manages into the night. After all, they should be cordial and respectful. The men you had saved his life had been humans. Hank couldn't have been his doctor if he'd wanted, Hank was a beast in the eyes of men.

Erik half smiles, coming around into himself through the water. Square and broad shoulders, seemingly bigger than had ever been, "And how have you been my dearest Xavier?"

"Erik."

"How long has it been?" Imploration was Erik's family.

Xavier looks away, trying to hide his pain, "Nearly a half a year." He said, gripping each of his knees.

"Still in this ruddy place?" But Erik, standing above Xavier's new height pursed his lips because he knew the truth, "This is not your kingdom, my dearest Charles." Erik spread his arms, "A hospital?"

Xavier managed to smile, "I'm nearly done now, just a bit more physical therapy and then I'll be set free. Hank of course keeps me updated on the boys. But Erik," he had let his arms fall and finally allowed himself to take in the wheelchair.

Erik sat down quietly on the frozen stone ground, it was a move of non dominance, "It isn't becoming." The fountain and the windows of the hospital and the stone were all the same shade of cool nighttime gray.

Xavier scoffed lightly, "The chair?" Erik grimaced, the words churned his stomach, "Afraid I haven't got much of a choice. The damage was...was permanent."

Erik said nothing, it was the bullet he still wore around his neck that had done it. Moria could've been blamed so long ago, it was her gun-her metal, but it was really Erik, he brought the fate. Twisting the bullet, spending it almost directly into Xavier's spine.

"They seemed hopeful at first. Saying that the damage was incomplete. But that didn't last."

Erik urged the wheelchair toward him saying that he was sorry. Repeating it so that everything could hear. Xavier wanted to say that it was okay, but he could not bring himself to. The tension between them was like so many jade colored sparrows moving through some strong wind. Erik's monomania with sensation was killing Xavier.

"Close your eyes." Erik said when Xavier was close enough to hear Erik's strained whisper.

"Take off your helmet, first."

"If I do that, you have to promise not to use my eyes."

"I promise."

On the stone the red helmet looked like blood.

Each open and valuable they sat, nearly the lowest objects in whole courtyard. Erik began coaxing some of the iron from Xavier's blood up through the muscle until it all rested just below his skin. A tattoo of sorts, improvised and introverted. He was tracing objects, words, and maps on Xavier's legs. Moving ever upward and all the while watching Xavier's calm face. When he reached Xavier's thy he sighed remorsefully and traced a small, disconnected heart knowing that he'd never feel what he had done. His legs now held, unknowingly, the map of their trial. Erik had always been a artist with iron.

When he was ready to leave he placed the bullet, on its silver string, on Xavier's lap.

_Erik, wait. _His eyes still shut, _should you decide to roam, please, God Erik...please be careful of all those lonesome roads. The men who travel them, the women and children, the people..._Xavier finally opened his eyes, blue like sugar candy and on the verge of tears, _these people will not know your ways. God knows I didn't..._

He left with Azal that night, the fountain crying, the metal helmet by Xavier's feet.


End file.
